


Timing

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a dream I had, Carsex, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Often The Plot, Sherlock Is A Bit Of A Shit, Yeah PWP, pwp?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't listen and multi-tasks experiments on John whilst navigating their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This literally came to me in a dream. Starring someone else but I translated it into Johnlock for your reading pleasure. Also I need to write whenever I can to get back into it as the writer's block is strong in me. Anyhow, it made *me* giggle and a little bit hot.

 

 

 

 

  
_It was a dark and wintry night..._  

 

No, that was too cheesy even for him. John racked his not inconsiderable mind for an opening to the blog post this little adventure would produce. He didn't embellish, as his best/flatmate enjoyed accusing him of doing. He just winnowed the pile of information, leaving the interesting grain whilst letting the chaff blow away. The chaff often included petty arguments, slightly illegal activity, and certain mistakes, such as the huge one he made getting into a hire car with Sherlock Holmes in the dead of Winter, during a snowstorm. They were far from the meager dusting London was getting and John was pretty convinced they'd ended up somewhere between the North Pole and the ice planet of Hoth. 

 

No streetlamps and no warm lights from scattered farm houses in the vicinity probably meant little to no phone coverage. Sherlock pulled the vehicle over(an all wheel drive SUV, thank God for small miracles)as John checked his phone for the tenth time in the short span of time it took for Sherlock's phone battery, the phone with the Sat Nav they were relying on, to give out. He himself hadn't had any bars since, roughly, the first hour outside of the London area. He really needed an upgrade, especially now that they had a more than comfortable income. 

 

It did nothing for their current situation however. Despite reminding him a thousand times, Sherlock hadn't brought his charger and John's had a differently shaped plug.

 

Loving Sherlock Holmes was not for the faint of heart. Discounting the more enjoyable bits, it was basically measured in an endless mountain range of frustration. The good parts were an early Summer stroll about the base, all serenity and surrounded by the natural order of things, which always included a defined, yet chaotic trail for balance, in the form of a surprise experiment in the bath, or the adrenaline rush of playing The Game. Sometimes, however, Sherlock would lead him to a series of crags, shoving him farther and farther up to the pinnacle and either unable to see(fat chance), or ignoring the increased agitation in him. The joke seemed to be on John, however, because he still needed Sherlock to be able to breathe. Not for the first time that trip, he considered seeing a therapist more regularly to try and suss out why that was and, yet again, he dismissed the thought. Why they worked didn't matter. They just did. 

 

Even though he was about to work his fingers around that long, pale throat and squeeze until he got a moment's peace from the aloof quiet his partner in every sense of the word exuded.  John would at least get the chance to think about a way to solve this.

 

"I don't know why you're so angry," Sherlock was saying, pushing him up that mountain even further. "It's not like we don't have enough petrol to last until we get somewhere we can get another charging cord."

 

"I'm angry because I told you a hundred times to... you know what? Just turn around!"

 

"But John, we're over halfway there."

 

"Which would be a comfort if we KNEW WHERE THE BLOODY HELL WE WERE GOING!" His shouting rang in his ears and he was about to make good on his fantasy of throttling Sherlock when he saw the apathetic look on the consulting detective's face. One more blink. Just one more of those opalescent eyes and he'd do it.

 

Before that deadline, however, Sherlock reached across him and released his seat back so it fell to a much a wider angle. Before he could figure out what was going on, Sherlock had John's trousers open and his flaccid cock out through the slit of his pants. Well flaccid wasn't exactly correct. He frequently went to half mast when he was expressing passion toward Sherlock, his body not seeming to be able to differentiate between positive and negative emotion, only that his blood was up and Sherlock was interacting with him. Definitely more therapy because that didn't sound right at all.

 

But in the time it took for him to think this, Sherlock already had him fully erect, foreskin retracted, a combination of saliva and beads of fluid from his slit serving as lubricant. The infuriating man continued looking for all the world like he was boredly browsing telly channels instead of furiously wanking John past the point of coherency. He knew exactly what to do, where to rub, how much pressure to use.  He even had the  _unmitigated gall_  to check his watch. John wanted to shout some more at him for that, wanted to berate him for making this into a science experiment or whatever he was doing at the moment, but all he could get out was a sputtered, "F-Ffuck you, Sherlock." 

 

"Perhaps later," came his enraging retort.

 

"Nope. Not... for... a... very long Oh shit!"

 

"Very long what, John?"

 

"Shut it."

 

"Make me." The only thing he could do, the only thing he knew Sherlock couldn't resist, was his bared throat. The first time, when this particular weakness was discovered, Sherlock explained it in some sort of scientific way which basically boiled down to that he was ecstatic that John demonstrated complete trust in him again. John wrestled open the top two buttons of his shirt that showed above the V neck of his warm, cashmere pullover in deep blue that Sherlock had desperately gifted him that day in lieu of one of his regular jumpers.  He then leaned his head back and turned it toward the window.

 

"Not fair," Sherlock huffed. John let out an even louder groan as Sherlock panted a series of what sounded incredibly like whimpers as he licked and gnawed at the exposed flesh.

 

Ever the scientist, however, the experiment wasn't abandoned as, just as John came hard, missing his expensive top by the skin of his teeth by pulling it up as far as possible and Sherlock catching most of it in his hand, Sherlock looked at his watch. John's trousers weren't as lucky. He was in awe all over again as Sherlock began lapping up his emissions with that deft tongue. 

 

"Eight minutes," Sherlock stated nonchalantly.

 

"What, really?" In the afterglow, his ire was temporarily displaced. "I haven't come that hard that fast since I was a teen-ager." Sherlock shrugged rather narrow shoulders, padded by that large, heavy coat, licking his fingers before going into the glove box for some wet wipes he'd apparently stowed in there.

 

Right next to a map.

 

John felt himself being shoved back up that proverbial mountain, off the beaten path, the stones and soil abrading his apparently bare hands and feet. Sherlock was staring intently at the center console just above the radio as John yanked the map out, enduring the  _"oof"_  and brief glare he received from colliding with Sherlock's stomach with a magnanimous smirk. The satisfaction only lasted as long as it took for him to open it, to see the route clearly marked in bright green highlighter.

 

"I had to do something to calm you down enough to think clearly," Sherlock explained. "Frankly, I can't believe you didn't think to look for that earlier, old fashioned as you are." John thought that was the last straw, but he was sorely mistaken. Because with the play of long, pale fingers on a few buttons, Sherlock coaxed open a sliding panel, behind which a small screen came to life. John stared at the factory-installed Sat Nav for a long moment as Sherlock entered the address they were looking for.

 

John snatched the keys out of the ignition, ignoring Sherlock's indignant noise and, extremely quietly said, "I'll show you old fashioned. Get in back." Sherlock blinked at him again, only this time it was wide-eyed surprise and assessment.

 

"John, we should-"

 

"That's an order."

 

Sherlock seemed to take a split second to reboot before scrambling to do as he was told. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in the back seat, stays in the back seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was ordered to write this. It worked out, kinda.

 

 

 

 

There was a bit of a fumble, of the scraping of shoe against upholstery as Sherlock quickly gathered his gangly limbs into the back seat. John watched him a moment, dodging said limbs before sighing and opening the car door to get out and walk the three or four steps to the back door from which Sherlock's long, expensively shod feet spilled when it was opened. He quickly pulled them in, gathering himself back against the opposite side. John crawled between sharply jointed knees, looking every bit the predator he was and, with one knee between Sherlock's thighs and his right foot on the floor, he pushed both of Sherlock's arms above his head, easily looping the metal cuffs through the fixed handle there and clasping the bracelets about both bony wrists.

 

"John!" Sherlock almost gasped, visibly hard even by the dim light of the dash.

 

"Got them off you as you were trying to get back here," John explained in that low, unpredictable voice he knew never failed to get Sherlock's attention. "I really do like your eagerness, I do. But there's such a thing as overdoing it and I've warned you against that in the past, haven't I?" John thought it safe to restart the car so that they wouldn't freeze.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat as he did when becoming uncomfortable in any way. "W-well done, John. Your skills are improving-"

 

"Answer. the question, Sherlock. Haven't I warned you about your over-eagerness?"

 

"You have." John opened and unzipped Sherlock's trousers, tapping the narrow hips in an unspoken command for them to lift. They did so, seemingly of their own volition and he began working them and the deep grey boxer briefs down those creamy thighs, peppered with dark hairs, past sinewy calves, using a bungee he'd found in the boot, accessible from the rear seat to bind delicate-looking, dark sock-clad ankles until Sherlock could do little else but let his legs fall obscenely wide or expend effort keeping his knees closed, uncomfortably twisted to the left. John made sure that 'closed' wasn't an option, keeping his weight on the binding, his body between the now bare legs, bare legs that were, he was pleased to note, already quivering a bit with anticipation. John shed his jumper and tossed it in front where he'd been sitting.

 

"I have," John confirmed, as if trying to be patient with a child in trouble and began undoing Sherlock's shirt buttons from the bottom until his tautly muscled torso was bared, the surprisingly auburn hairs curling thinly in a vague 't'-shape. He ran deft doctor's fingers over them, avoiding Sherlock's nipples, which were already hardened with the aforementioned eagerness. With a chaste kiss to his high, pale forehead, John began the punishment in earnest.  

 

He'd assessed the vehicle when they'd first acquired it, was pretty sure of its strengths and weaknesses. So Sherlock wasn't going anywhere without a feat of strength that would most likely break bone. Even  _he_  knew he wasn't patient enough to wait out that healing process and so it wouldn't happen unless there was an actual emergency situation and he couldn't be freed in time.

 

John started touching Sherlock's hairline, pushing up into that gorgeous mass of dark curls, tugging gently at the root just to hear him whine involuntarily. He trailed them down the length of his neck, stroking a bit more firmly the places he planned to mark. Over his collarbone, once more through the chest hair, only this time, he didn't skip over the nipples which were wonderfully sensitive. He circled them, spiraling inward and speeding up the soft contact until Sherlock seemed to be doing everything in his power not to whimper, a task easily defeated by a nice rolling pinch to one, the other, then both at once. He'd almost gotten Sherlock to come like that a few times, but could never resist touching his cock during the experimental process, therefore making the results inconclusive.

 

His left hand continued down, cream against marble, dancing over and around Sherlock's leaking member, playing in the fluid, bringing it to his mouth for a taste of the man's very essence. Having the entirety of that intense focus was a heady thing, and John basked in it. John went over his path with his tongue, Sherlock writhing with beads of sweat beginning to emerge on his bared skin despite the relative cool of the back seat. The heat was at a level of balance maintenance as opposed to bringing the temperature up steadily.

 

John backed up completely to the delicious sound of an involuntary grunt of frustration in order to pour lube into his right palm from the small bottle he'd pilfered with the cuffs. Sherlock often tried to get him to engage in sexual activity in semi-public, high off of one victory or another, or unable to clear his mind sufficiently and so pulling him into an alley or dilapidated building or something because he was unable to wait until they got home. He said 'tried' because John would only let it go but so far. A quick orgasm was one thing but John would never fuck or be fucked by Sherlock outside of their home, wherever it was at the time. Only in the guest bedrooms or en-suite of a place they were actually visiting and not a crime scene, did he let it get that far. However, John decided just now, that it was one of his best bargaining chips as well as a worse punishment than the silent treatment, shouting, forcing him to solve boring cases, and booby traps combined (he'd had to set one on gifts he was trying to keep secret several times but was pretty sure they'd been breached anyway. However, Sherlock sufficiently annoyed at it was its own reward). 

 

Within five minutes, Sherlock's neck and chest were riddled with marks in the shape of his mouth that would purple nicely in areas that people would be unsure whether or not it was his favourite(most fetching)button up or a love bite. Two fingers of John's left hand were buried deep inside his love's arse, finding his prostate unerringly whilst his right hand mercilessly stroked Sherlock's length until he was saying whatever came to mind. Lots of 'yes' and 'there' and 'please'. John took his sweet time. Enough time, in fact, to add a third finger and become completely hard again. He sunk into Sherlock's depths, always surprised at how tight he remained even after a good preparation. Comforted by the fact that there was absolutely no way this hurt even a little, John set a punishing pace right off the bat. He combined it with giving Sherlock's nipples a good tongue lashing with it until he started hearing swearing. After John got his left hand between them, he only had to give Sherlock's cock a few cursory strokes before the man with the largest vocabulary he'd ever encountered got to the word 'Fuck!'. John knew then that it was time.

 

He pulled back completely, sitting back against the opposite door, breathing deeply.

 

John watched the rather textbook show of the stages of grief play out right before him. He turned on the interior light, fog obscuring the falling snow outside, and basked in the 'No no you can't do this to me's. He then let the string of expletives and berating pour over him like a refreshing wave of cool water after an afternoon of manual labour in the sun. Sherlock's speech turned into the sticky sweet tone of bargaining, begging that he would try harder to control himself if John would ' _just finish please for God's sake!_ '. Sherlock then spoke as if he was convinced John didn't actually love him, and John knew it was untrue, but Sherlock's entire body began to go limp and that was what was needed.

 

He got back in there with long, slow thrusts this time, showering Sherlock with loving kisses, licks, and sweet words, releasing his hands so he could be held and stroked as well. Sherlock was truly apologetic in more ways than his words conveyed, continuing to accept john long after he himself had already orgasmed. When John was spent a second time, they cleaned each other and themselves up and gathered their clothing and appearances, putting all to rights. Of course Sherlock had to be Sherlock.

 

"John, how is it a punishment to give me the public sex you've been aware I've so desperately been wanting?" he asked in that endearingly little shit way he had.

 

"Because," John replied, making sure his hair was properly laying down, "you had no idea whether or not I was going to give it to you."

 

"You can't resist me," Sherlock smirked. They got out of the back seat both using the doors this time and got back to their original places.

 

"What did you call what I just did?" The git actually seemed a bit embarrassed at his behaviour. "I didn't give in because I couldn't resist, Sherlock, I gave in because you seemed to have actually gotten the point. If I thought you didn't understand, I wouldn't have finished you off and you would have just had to remain frustrated. I'm a lot more patient than you are stubborn, you know."

 

"Touché , John," Sherlock said, having engaged the defogger and punched their destination into the newly discovered Sat Nav. "Touché, my love."

 


End file.
